Nothing is Real

Washington Post

It’s super-Tuesday in America and we find ourselves receding into a dark night. Nothing is Real. All around us the clowns and jesters and zealots of American politics annihilate the code of reason of truth & sensibility. The loudest, nastiest, crudest voices prevail. Nothing is Real. The ever-present transmission signal of the media only serves to amplify the politic voices into a cacophony of the absurd: a noise that sucks out the air and drowns everything else until a deafening silence, an exploding Nothingness, a vast wasteland, fills the void. Downward goes the spiral of confusion until we find ourselves swirling in the dizzy overabundance of disinformation, all of which cancels itself out to ø.

Out of the darkness, leading the procession, the strangely horrifying, TRUMPIAN phantom encircles and strangles our collective consciousness, leading us swiftly and directly to the Gates of Hell. With the electoral onslaught of Super-Tuesday in America, a super-saturated din of candidates and pundits argue themselves into an eternal blast of heat and noise, which underscores the fantastically grotesque nature of our journey into this political underworld. Nothing is Real. Out of the churning torrent of chattering – an endless feedback loop of polarization – the voices of the wailing masses rise up in a great, resounding clamor to cast their vote for the Celebrity Joker: sealing the Deal with the Devil.

From across the depths of the Dantesque drama, I also see Alice descending into another mad world where in her fall, she transgresses mysteriously and unknowingly through to the Other Side, where: the Mad Hatter Himself is hosting the Tea Party… yes, Nothing is Real. We find ourselves descending into worlds of collective social hallucination, narrated by the media chatter resonating through the cavity of our aggregated minds, stretched silly in our futile effort to absorb and compute the message. Our concentration soon breaks down when confronted with the ø-sum meaninglessness of it all: it’s simply impossible to compute. Nothing is Real.

Deeper and still deeper into the super-darkness we go, drifting through a timeless, drifting broadcast where the machinations of the politic clarion resound more and more hollow, a profound and disturbing hollowness, until our heads become lighter, floating like air, until Nothing, absolutely Nothing, makes any sense at all. Nothing is Real. Each of us together in the Nothing, a stillness that is chilling, a Nothing that is in between Nowhere.